Mrs Ferny
by Be3
Summary: Face it, girls, there's not much you can do if you fall into Middle Earth all alone and helpless. Rated for language, themes, and a couple swearwords.
1. Chapter 1

Usual disclaimer applies.

* * *

She's been an Eowyn once, and she loves the Books, and she knows just how to save Boromir and win and live happily ever after.

Right.

She does.

She fingers the strange dress she's got on, and looks at the dusty country road – empty and quiet and so long. Why do people who wake up in Middle Earth not get a map?

There's some wood in the distance, not the dark awful Wood of Fangorn, but a homely little copse, and the last leaves still cling to the branches. Rohan was all meadows, wasn't it; Rivendell was wild, and Gondor was all fields and ruined fortifications. This place is probably Hobbiton or somewhere near, and she can join the adventure at the very beginning…

… _if_ she can guess where to go.

Well. There's one way to find out.

She walks, and walks, and walks down the empty long road and plans what she will tell to whom. She doesn't have any food or water, but it's only a little thing – it's even comforting to think about, because the Fate before her is overwhelming.

The sun climbs up, and the light wind is really so nice after Earth's polluted air.

She walks for hours and smiles when she sees a town ahead of her.

The town is Bree.

* * *

There's not much to do in Bree, because the hobbits and Aragorn have already gone away – everybody talks about the Disappearing Act and the Night Raid and some are pretty rude about the whole thing.

She could try to follow them, but she isn't a Ranger – crossing the wild lands will be the end of her for sure. Even worse, she could be captured and questioned by one of the nasty spies, and then the Light Side will lose because she can't hold out under torture (she's never had to, but somehow she knows it in her heart.)

She could go to Hobbiton and prevent the horrible things there from happening. Still, she'd rather rest for a bit – Hobbiton is days away on foot. Also, who knows if all Wraiths have already left it?

(It's a good thing Westron turned out to be English, after all.)

…and then it crashes in upon her that she's alone, poor, and keeping a secret that could change the whole world's future, for good or ill.

And where do they – er – where is the outhouse?

* * *

She is a bit – a big bit – unnerved. Well, she's found the outhouse, and now she's just hungry, thirsty and very much lost.

What could she do?

She should find a job and a place to live, and maybe she could wait until the opportune moment – the War of the Ring wasn't all that long – and go help Hobbits, because Rivendell or Gondor are out of question.

Okay, what job could she choose?

It rapidly becomes clear that in Bree, there aren't a lot of options, and nobody wants a stranger After What Happened to the 'Prancing Pony'. An unskilled worker isn't welcome, too. Not surprising, really. She should just go on her way.

But weren't Hobbits, in general, distrustful of Men? There was this Border and such. They might not take her in.

And then she'd have to walk back. It's easier to stay where she is.

She should find a way to earn a living. Any way. And soon. It's better to look presentable when you want to impress your employer. What do women here do when they become so… desperate?

Well, in romances they could always marry whenever they wished – actually, for many of them it was the Staying Single that took daring.

She swears to herself that she's better than that, and it's not like she can tap a man on the shoulder and say, 'You're my husband.'

There aren't many bachelors in the provincial town of Bree even remotely eligible.

In fact, she knows of only one.

* * *

Bill Ferny hasn't got a chance. She shocks him into agreeing and after a few formalities; he bows her into his house. His friends shout outside and then leave.

It's old, and small, and drab, and there are unwashed things hanging from furniture (there's not much of it, either). Still, it's a house, and she won't starve.

'Cook,' says Ferny. 'Potatoes are in that sack.'

She knows that she mustn't look surprised by what there _is_. She mustn't use long words or let him know she can read and write. And she absolutely mustn't show any interest in politics.

She's on warpath, after all.

'I hope you're clean,' he says with a sigh. 'Water's in the well.'

'Sure I am! Why?'

'Well, I don't want to lie with a dirty wife.'

_Wife._

'You…' she stops herself just in time. 'You don't want children, do you?'

His mouth falls open.

'And just what else would I need you for?'

Children.

Oh no no no, she hasn't agreed to that. Bill Ferny will die soon, and she won't be – can't be – it's absurd!

'And what if I am…'

'Already a mother?' he asks, clearly mocking.

'No!'

'Barren?'

'No!'

'Ah. Suppose it don't matter. Unless they gave you something else?'

What can he mean by that?

* * *

'This,' he says, picking the axe easily, though tears still slide down his face and he moans with laughter, 'is an axe.'

'I know!' she snaps.

She's been running about with this thing in her arms for the whole morning. It's heavy! And sharp, too!

'That – _hic_ – is a rooster. One that I thought – _hic_ – you'd make a stew of.'

She could have tripped over the blasted bird, and cut off her own foot. Honestly.

'Yes, yes. Do it. Please.'

'You're hilarious,' he says and goes lazily to behead it. 'Don't forget to keep the feathers this time.'

* * *

She gets 'in the family way', and the family way is trouble. Midwifery is not good enough to see her through. She's got these narrow hips. Are there any doctors? Healers? Elrond?

'Bill,' she says. 'Call in someone to have a look at me.'

He leers at her, but finally she bothers him into going out and bringing a goodwife – that's all to be had here.

And since the woman is a _good_wife, she's absolutely not fond of Bill. And she doesn't understand why she's been called at all if the baby is not coming out.

'Look,' says Mrs. Ferny. 'I can see you don't like him, and I tell you, I'm not blaming you for it.'

'Hm!' says Mr. Ferny.

'_But_ I'm not a monster for marrying him, and I really _need_ some advice, so please be so _kind_ as to come _in_ and – '

She bullies the goodwife into doctoring, and it seems she might get through this.

And Bill, he stays out of her way for a week.

* * *

'Bill, do you have relatives?'

'Wha -?'

'Relatives,' she says impatiently. 'Who would be willing to take me and the kid in, were anything to happen to you.'

He waggles a finger in her face. 'Now don't be too smart, sweetheart.'

'I'm not being smart! I'm in earnest!'

'Huh,' he says and frowns. 'Guess not.'

'It's dangerous times we have now,' she says, and swallows, 'cause she has no idea who is going to win the War of the Ring this time around. 'And people don't like you much.'

He looks at her shrewdly - he often does - just a glance from under heavy lids, but it leaves her troubled and chafing.

That evening, he tells her that in any emergency she's to go to So-and-So and ask for a place. And if she's given one - he can't promise she will have it - she's got to work like she's never worked before. So it's not in her best interests, to have something happen to him.

She doesn't grumble at him, because it's probably the best he can do. Inside, she's just hollow.

To work full time.

Probably domestic service, since she knows no trade.

For a complete stranger.

With a baby on her hands.

And no man by her side, not even Bill Bloody Ferny.

It won't come to pass. It can't.

* * *

'You know,' he tells her one day. 'I used to think it mighty suspicious, you throwing yourself at me and all.' He says 'yerself', but she refuses to let her grammar down. 'Now I know better.'

She picks up a frying pan and smiles.

'…cause you're so charming, dear, you can't do no deceivin', o my flower.'

And people _talk_ about her, and she's never given them any reason to say those things, and she can't always stay home.

* * *

'What is this?' he asks, smudging the coal drawing with a careless finger.

'A design,' she says, acting indifferent. 'Some people like beautiful clothes or plates.' She stresses 'some' out of habit.

Take that, fate! She can cheat! Not in the scientific department – she's got a degree in a Literature that's never been invented in this world (actually, the folk here think her a bit dumb, seeing as she doesn't know any lore, not even nursery rhymes), no – she'll introduce them to Modern Art. And then, when she's famous, she'll found a sewing agency – maybe in Gondor, there should be more paying customers nearer the capital...

'Ugly,' he says. 'Where's my 'baccy?'

* * *

'How come you have a sore throat again?' he asks, though he sounds resigned. She just doesn't have the constitution to wash all their clothes and bedclothes and tableclothes in the cold river. At least she has bought healing herbs and a warm shawl.

'Sorry,' she sniffs. She _is_ sorry – they were going to go to the fair, the only decent entertainment in this bleak place. She might have talked him into buying a bauble, 'for the chile'.

'Don't burn all wood,' he says, and leaves.

She stays in bed; it's still early enough not to think about cooking. He's brought home a few bits and pieces, probably from the South (he forbade her to show them to anybody – as if she ever had guests!) – five big, bright beads, a piece of Oliphaunt's tusk, an embroidered kerchief.

Maybe it's all been stolen.

Maybe it's all been stolen from dead people.

She doesn't know. Her baby will have toys, and what matters where they come from? It's a good thing Bill thinks about it at all.

And anyway, if she's to live in Middle Earth, why not live as well as she can? Everybody in the Books stood to gain something from their efforts. Aragorn had to die or marry Arwen (and he wasn't that reluctant to take the throne, too). Legolas was his father's ambassador – perhaps even heir. Gimli – well, Gimli was a dwarf, she's never been quite clear on what makes them tick. Avarice? Pigheadedness? Frodo wanted to live. Boromir (oh Boromir!) wanted to be Steward.

It wasn't selfish of them, so why can't she just want to be a loyal wife and have enough for tomorrow?

...And maybe if she has seen a live Orc or a burning field or a Nazgul she'd think differently about the War, but – she hasn't. And she certainly wasn't going out to search for any of it. Not with a sore throat.

* * *

'Stop,' she whispers. 'Don't go.'

Billy is asleep at last, spread-eagled across her stomach. She can't move – both her hands are under his small body. She's afraid to miss the moment when his fever comes up again.

Nothing special, he's teething. They've been over it already.

Her husband doesn't listen. It's that evening when he goes out and doesn't return.

'Bill!'

They will find him in the morning, lying in a frozen pool of his own blood.

'Bill!'

And Mr. Butterbur will mention it in passing to the returning hobbits. A piece of local news.

'Bill!'

'Hush, woman. Don't rouse him.'

Great idea, she thinks hysterically. Would he stay if she woke Billy up? Or would he leap out into the night without even his coat on?

'Bill.'

'What do you want?'

'You.'


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I didn't think of this thing as more than a one-shot, but flattery is something I just can't ignore, and people kept 'following' it; so here's a continuation. It's going to be a collection of one-shots, updated sporadically (I cannot plot things well, sorry, guys). I know how it will end, the exact words; it isn't a happy story.

(Also, I realize Billy could not really have any of his teeth come out by the night when Bill Ferny would have died, but teething sometimes starts much earlier than that – and the more painful for it.)

* * *

Bill doesn't die.

The war ends.

Everybody's happy.

Well, everybody who's known there was a war going on. The people in their street seem rather surprised to learn about it, and not-so-secretly happy that it didn't touch their little downy nest.

Also, there are suddenly jobs available, since the un-blockaded Hobbits sorely need outsiders' help to rebuild their community in preparation for the busy season. (That's what she calls it in her mind. She used to hate winter when she was young and silly.) Still, now that she has a baby to care for, she can't just go and ask for work, that's plainly irresponsible.

That's not what most women here think. A lot of them carry their kids around with ease. She might have tried it, too, but she's still so scared for him – he's so tiny, so needy, and so sickly. It's tough, taking care of him twenty-four seven, and she cries often, but each day she loves him more and more.

Bill sometimes stops to watch them with this weird look in his eyes (he's really not great with facial expressions). Bill is not great with pretty much everything, including baby-sitting, but she's damned if she lets him do anything to their kid that can not be undone. So there.

This is going to be her world; and she plunges into it grim and collected.

Life's a bit dull, is all.

* * *

One day, when she makes time to muck out the kitchen, she looks out the window and sees Bill talking to a man she doesn't know. That's not strange; Bill never introduces her to anybody. It's his stance, the hunchline of his shoulders, the lowered head and jerking arms that make her worry.

She's missing something, and it's not the high prices of dairy products (Breelanders aren't all that charitable when Demand kicks Supply in the gut).

Something important.

Could be it _is_ the money. They've been saving the whole time, and he doesn't tell her what he will do with it – he owns the house, and it's not like they will put Billy into a posh college, because (surprise, surprise) there aren't any posh colleges lying around. Maybe he wants to buy a business? But he'd be rubbish at it, he's hardly literate. Maybe he wants to run away? Leave her and the kid and… no. Bill is a fool and a cad, but he's not that bad.

Besides, he owns the house.

Maybe he is older that she thinks (she hasn't actually asked) and already starts going senile? Oh what a laugh; illiterate cad or not, Bill Ferny won't lose clarity of mind until his last breath. He's a real cockroach.

She turns it over in her head the whole day and still draws a blank, but in the end, it's enough to know that trouble is coming. She waits for Bill to harden up and tell her – it doesn't pay to nag at him.

After the dinner, he scowls (it's nice to know she intimidates him) and asks distastefully if she has anything of value.

'Not even a Ring,' she says.

'Good,' he says. 'Gather your things. We're going away.'

'Tomorrow?' she asks stupidly, because it's dark outside and she's been meaning to buy skein and flo –

'Tonight,' he snarls, not loudly. 'Bundle the kid warm, we're goin' to walk to the gate.'

* * *

Time's up.

Hobbits have dug up Evidence against him, and the bailiff is out for his blood, which is, thankfully, cheap enough. But not even the bailiff can fool them for long.

Bill doesn't say it in so many words, but she can read his silences as well as his grunts. She doesn't pretend to know why Hobbits, of all people (or is it Peoples?) want to burn him at the stake, and neither does she ask him.

She knows he thinks she can't comprehend it yet, but trouble is, she can, she just can't accept it. They didn't have much…

They will have less…

They are running from justice…

The moon's in the clouds and all sound's muted. Bill carries their bags, and she goes after him holding Billy to herself in a vice-like grip. Billy, oh Billy, you haven't done anything wrong.

Please, Billy, don't wake up, she pleads, stumbling on the dirty cobbles, Mom's here, it'll be alright, sweetheart.

* * *

The van is not new, and the pony is not young, but it's the best they could have on a short notice. This must be the first time when Bill doesn't hate a pony on sight, too, 'cause he's just too distracted by getting everything else ready. Somebody walks with them for a while – must be another 'friend' of Bill's, he's always talking to suspicious folks – but when he leaves them alone and it's only the road, the van, and the moon…

The night drags on. She's in the van pretty fast – the baby is her first responsibility – but still she can't settle down for hours, listening and thinking and holding it all in.

Curse that man of hers, couldn't he have lived an honest life!

If only he wasn't so greedy. He simply can't have enough. Well she'll make sure he has enough on his hands from now on – it's time to make the world a better place for women. Yea, she'll have it out with him first thing in the morning.

(After she sees to the kid.)

And curse those Hobbits! Don't they have things to do right now? Like saving their economy by willpower and dedication?

(And burying their dead, and healing their wounded.)

And curse that bailiff! How much does he think he's worth? How much do they have left? It must have been a rip-off, they should have stayed for the court – she'd be their barrister herself!

(And what would she tell to Frodo Baggins? To Meriadoc Brandybuck? To Samwise Gamgee? To Peregrin Took? 'Sorry, I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't change his mind'?)

And curse those guys for whom Bill worked! (Maybe still does.) Couldn't they leave him alone when he became a family man? Was it so hard to find another contact in this hole?

(Only Bill probably begged them to not give the job to someone else.)

And curse her own self, too, for being weak and stupid.

The van bumps on the road, and Billy stirs, and nothing else matters anymore.

* * *

It's the third night of their journey. She cannot sleep properly, and the draughts and the lack of privacy and the sheer uncertainty of their future make her ill. Which in turn makes the kid ill, and the man angry.

And Bill isn't pretty when he's angry. Well, he's not pretty period.

And now he stopped the pony, too.

'What is it?' she hisses. She doesn't know where they are going, and it doesn't matter much, at this point.

They need to avoid Rangers coming back to patrol, but for now they would be still occupied hunting down Orcs and such. Departing Elves might take an interest in them, too, if Bill wasn't as low-profile as he liked to pretend. Disturbingly, she has no idea if he ever went out of his way to piss off anyone in Bree (he probably did), but townsfolk _are_ pretty lazy, so that shouldn't be a serious problem.

Unless they all banded together. The Winning Party of Barliman Butterbur, Cirdan the Shipwright and Some Ranger or Another, out to bring one Bill Ferny to a short drop and a sudden stop.

…No, she really must take a hold of herself. What's keeping them so long?

'What are you doing there?' she asks in a low voice, but insistently.

'Hello, sweetie,' says the one who stands beside her very wanted husband. She can't see his face.

'Eh, we're stoppin' here, darlin',' says Bill.

The nerve of him! Can't he see the road is too narrow? What if another van comes – the turn there is too sharp for it to stop in time! The smell – it's like a Troll's hanky! There's no place on the roadside for a decent fire, unless they want to cut some undergrowth, and that would wake the baby! She's been rocking him to sleep for hours – does he want a turn?

'We just need to talk about – '

_This_ is what makes her explode. (Silently.) He never learns! He 'just needs to talk' to all kinds of –colorful characters (here the other one snickers and ducks from under her heavy hand), and look where it got them! No, they will stop further up, and if this man wants anything badly enough, he'll walk.

'Okay,' Bill mumbles. For some reason, he walks beside the pony, too. They speak in low voices; she catches '…good mood today', and decides that she doesn't care for this busybody at all.

Soon, the road widens to her liking, the trees grow rarer, and Billy is again slumbering in her arms. Her golden boy. He would never make such a ruckus about –

'Bill Ferny! _What_ have I told you about smoking?'

'Never do it where the babe can breathe it,' Bill says gloomily, as the other man coughs and sputters. 'It's not me, it's him.'

She explains to the offender the dangers of tobacco to young bodies (dumbing it down for Middle-Agers) until he starts putting in 'yes, ma'am' and 'sorry, ma'am' and even a bit after that. He'll think twice about coming near small children reeking of fumes.

And where did he learn to cook? Look at this hare – food isn't wood, it's not for burning!

'Leave him be,' Bill says at last. 'He's nae got no wife.'

Just then, it's time to feed Billy, and she has to comply. And then she falls asleep, because the fire is warm and the night grows late.

* * *

Bill doesn't wake her up, and it's nice to be able to sleep in for once. She takes a moment to stretch and check the kid.

_My, hubs looks positively downtrodden._

'Where's that awful man?' she asks, yawning.

'Gone,' Bill says sadly. His eyes are bleary and there are dark circles under them. The lines in his face seem deeper. He's grossly unshaven, too.

But there's no smell of alcohol. There are depths to which he would not sink.

'What was his name again?'

'One-eyed Joe.'

'Ugh.' Whatever sympathy she was feeling towards him quickly evaporates. 'And what did he want of you?'

Bill turns his head to squint at her. It's like he's having trouble thinking straight.

'The fella who met us in the wee hours o' the night… where the road is narrowest?'

'Yes, that one.'

'… an' ye can see just a few yards ahead of ye?'

'Yes.'

'… an' hid 'is face even when we all sat down to eat?'

'_Yes.'_ What's with him? How many men did they meet last night?

'Well I don't know, darlin'.' He blinks heavily. 'Might be he wanted to rob us clean, what with all of 'em lawful people out o' the way.'


End file.
